


Faces

by MercurialNature



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Gen, Isolation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 15:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12937776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercurialNature/pseuds/MercurialNature
Summary: I asked my father once:  does everyone look the same to you, Father?  He studied my eyes, mouth working silently for a moment, and then turned away.





	Faces

I know that once there was a young boy who played and dreamed of what he might someday be, and I know that boy bore my name, but I do not remember being him. That was another life. I do not mourn it.

Who I _am_ … I was birthed in fire by Gregor Clegane. He killed that child and that child’s dreams and beget me from flesh and coals. My life began that day, in pain and screaming like every other life begins, only for me that screaming never went away. It has changed over the years from the indignation of a child left alone to suffer, screaming out in confusion at the injustice, to the boiling rage that permeates and defines me. It is all that I am and all I have ever been. I believe it is all I will ever be, unless perhaps my brother should one day die at my hands. I consider that then the rage might fade into silence leaving me hollow, a void. What happens to a man when his sole animus is depleted? If I kill Gregor, will I myself fall to the ground, shattering the empty shell? Someday I will know, but not today.

My earliest memories are of reaching out to my father through a grey haze, sobbing. Sometimes he would touch my outstretched hands, though he would not pull me into his arms, his face contorted in an emotion I could not name. Sometimes he would not touch me, but violently wrench his gaze away from my tears, and disappear from my small, grey world. Sometimes he wasn’t there at all and everything I could see was still, dark, and cold. I dimly remember other shadowed figures, features blanked by time, painfully touching my face; these ciphers were numb to my crying and my pleas. And of course, _he_ was there. _He_ was always there, I knew it, whether I could see his dark, still face or no. I could feel him even in an empty room. My creator.

In time the grey haze dissipated and there was light and dark in my world again, movement and people and faces… faces. So many faces to see, but they all reshaped themselves when they turned to me. I wondered if everyone had this experience, if each person who looked their way bore the same expression. I asked my father once: does everyone look the same to you, Father? He studied my eyes, mouth working silently for a moment, and then turned away. So I accepted that this was true.

I grew. I watched. I learned to be silent. When I’m silent, they turn away quickly and move on. I felt Gregor near me always, and I was silent. I spent time with the dogs, who did not look away. Their faces were always different. I found I could do things and they would behave in different ways, new ways. If I fed them they stayed near, rubbing against me and licking at my hands and face. If I twisted their tails or paws, they would keep their distance. If I stroked them and spoke to them, they watched me eagerly and tried to understand what I wanted them to do. I grew, and learned, and watched.

I saw my father from time to time; he was usually away for one reason or another. His visits grew shorter, and then Gregor too would go away with him. He was never far from me though; even if I did not see his face for weeks I knew he was waiting near, just around the corner, just behind the door, just in that darker shadow. I felt him and was silent.

A day came when our master-at-arms spoke to me, addressing me by name for the first time. He told me that my father said it was time for me to train with him, that I could not spend all my time with the dogs any longer. He gave me a wooden sword and taught me how to use it. I was very good at watching and learning, and I learned quickly what he wanted me to do. I would practice with other boys, older than I but similar in size, and did what I was told very well. Sometimes when I would knock down another boy with a good blow I would see my teacher smile at the fallen one and then turn his eyes to me; then his face would change like all the rest. No matter how skillfully I displayed my knowledge, the smile would melt away to that most familiar expression. I had listened and learned well and now I knew what this expression meant: _pity_.

I grew and watched and learned so much under his tutelage. He found me larger boys to fight and gave me heavy blunted steel to use. Then, when there were no more boys my size – any that were had already left to become squires or apprentices – I would fight two. I swung my steel with greater ease and speed than they and two became as easy as one. I was eleven years old. My master watched me carefully and told me that if I could best two boys, then it was time for me to practice with a man.

He chose a man a bit taller than I, a bit broader, with a kind and friendly face who talked easily with him and did not look at me. When we donned our padding, he kept his distance and let me take the lead, let me show him what I could do before advancing upon me. I swung and was parried, swung and was parried, swung and was parried. I began to understand that fighting one grown man was more like fighting two boys; I needed strength and speed and to know what he would do before he did it. So I did; I had learned so well.

I thrust more quickly and my strikes hit home. He parried fewer of my blows, and more vigorously swung his own weapon at me. Some of his blows landed but did not slow me; I was faster than him and had the resilience of youth on my side. His face was a mask of concentration as his eyes focused on my sword and he brought all his efforts to bear on deflecting my strikes. I remember it clearly even now: my sword a shining arc, the ringing of metal, the silence of the yard around us. His stance, his footing, starting to stagger, giving ground. His grunts, his gasps as my blows landed, his sweating and reddened face. And then… and _then_ … his face! His eyes raising to mine as I struck again and again, his parries weakening, and his face as he looked at me for the first time, really looked at me! There was no pity there, no, this was different, this was new! As I felt my blade strike his arm and heard the crack of his bone, he fell to one knee and shouted, “I yield,” but oh, his _face_ , I remember it to this day though I never knew his name. He panted up at me as I stood over him, and I knew what it was I saw there. This… this was fear. It was new, and it was for me.

**Author's Note:**

> Written in May 2012 and originally posted to a Livejournal community.


End file.
